


pray tell

by unholyconfessions (orphan_account)



Series: salt in the wounds [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Canon Rewrite, Dubcon Kissing, Episode Related, M/M, Set During 5.07 - Strange Frequencies, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-12
Updated: 2015-08-12
Packaged: 2018-04-14 09:43:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4559913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/unholyconfessions
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Theo could run; he could fight. Stiles doesn’t stand a chance against him, but he’s not moving.</p>
            </blockquote>





	pray tell

**Author's Note:**

> Set during those first magical minutes of Strange Frequencies, where I became Stiles/Theo trash. Thank you, Teen Wolf. 
> 
> It's mostly a rewrite with things added in for depth, and I'll probably rework the car scene too. Eeep! Here we go.
> 
> This is unbetaed. Feedback is love.
> 
> Happy reading!

Stiles’ first instinct is to deny it, to run. Run from the truth, from the slight taunt in Theo’s tone, the threat in Theo’s eyes, but he doesn’t. 

He doesn’t because Theo keeps talking, his calculating stare fixed on Stiles, like he knows exactly what he’s doing, like he knows exactly which button to push to make Stiles’ stomach turn inside out.

“I know what happened to Donovan,” he says, the words coming out of his mouth with what can only be deliberate caution. “I know everything.”

Stiles reacts against instinct. He takes one, two, three steps forward and slams right into Theo’s body, his fingers closing around the fabric of Theo’s shirt, against his chest.

Sparks fly somewhere in the distance, loud and buzzing in Stiles’ ears, electricity against metal. It’s hard for him to think clearly, to think through _anything_.

He can’t breathe, but Theo’s gasping for air in short, spastic spurts, his chest rising under his shirt and Stiles’ fists. Stiles doesn’t stand a chance against him. He could run; he could fight. He could be anywhere but there, but he’s not moving.

For that one unending second, he’s not moving.

“You don’t know anything,” Stiles says through his teeth, heart stuck in his throat, making him want to scream.

 _That_ gets a reaction out of Theo.

Theo’s hands close around Stiles’ biceps, fingers digging into his hoodie and pressing into his skin hard enough to bruise.

“I was there,” Theo says, flipping them around before Stiles has a chance to fight it, but Stiles’ hands don’t budge around his shirt. “I was at the library.” 

Stiles breathes in, finally, swallows dry as Theo shoves at him after every other word, too close for comfort. 

“Malia found the book. She was texting us to see where you were. She said she left you at the library.” Theo’s fingers twitch in the slightest, and Stiles wouldn’t have noticed if the world hadn’t been reduced to that single moment, that burn in his throat and Theo against him. “I told her I was close. When I got there, I heard the scaffolding come down.”

“You saw him?” Stiles asks, just loud enough.

Theo takes a breath, offers, “Just the body.” 

Stiles’ brain quiets down, but he still feels the need to punch, kick, _scream_ at something. He glances down at where Theo’s body meets his, at the way Theo’s breathing through his mouth, feels Theo’s grip around him loosen a fraction—lenient, but not any less alert. He loosens his own before letting go completely, breathes.

“I watched you come out,” Theo speaks, lower now, his voice soothing Stiles’ nerves. His hands slide down Stiles’ arms until they aren’t connected anymore. “I was gonna say something, but then I saw the cop car," he says, breathing loud, louder than Stiles, his chest rising and falling like there’s not enough air between them, “and the body was gone.”

Stiles can’t figure out what Theo’s trying to do. Comfort him, _relate_ to him? 

“I don’t know who took him.” Theo shakes his head, his gaze dropping before he picks it back up and fixes it on Stiles. “I only saw what you saw, and I didn’t say anything because _you_ didn’t.”

Stiles moves his weight from one foot to another, leans closer to Theo, tries to figure out that cynical glimmer in Theo’s eyes. He watches as Theo’s lips move, just a flicker of his eyes over Theo’s mouth, and it’s Theo who steps closer this time.

A shudder crawls down Stiles’ spine. His brain is telling him to run, run as far away from Theo as he can, but he his feet are firmly set in their spot between Theo and that fence.

Theo’s hands find his arms again, claws digging in softly enough not to tear the fabric of his hoodie. Stiles watches, a breath stuck halfway up his chest, as Theo’s eyes turn bright and amber.

His heart plummets to the floor when Theo’s mouth touches his, almost unmoving. It’s just a brush of their lips, but the world becomes smaller and smaller, blurry at the sides, and Stiles can’t do _anything_ even as Theo presses against him, chest and hips and knees, crashing into him.

 _Get off_ , is what he thinks, but not what he says.

Theo’s lips are soft despite the roughness he puts into the kiss, biting and licking as if he could figure Stiles out by taste. Or by touch, as it turns out, with one hand slipping under Stiles’ hoodie and t-shirt, fingers—not claws, no, Stiles realizes with a harsh breath—finding skin and muscle.

Stiles groans, unable to fight the impulse, his knees buckling as Theo kisses a trail down his jaw and to his neck, teeth sinking into his skin. His body reacts to every touch, to every breath that ghosts over his skin, even though it shouldn’t. 

Theo moves a thigh between his legs and he impulsively grabs a hold of Theo’s shirt again, not caring about the implications. 

“Stiles,” Theo mouths against his neck, unenergetic but playful, as if asking Stiles for something that he knows Stiles won’t give.

Stiles closes his eyes, panic boiling in his stomach, and can only breathe again when he hears sirens in the background and Theo jolts away from him as if burnt.

Theo glances over his shoulder and back at Stiles, his eyes still searching, and asks, “It’s not an ambulance, is it?”

Stiles shakes his head, blinks—not at the question but at everything else—and moves away, panic giving way to anger.

“We should get out of here,” Theo says.

Stiles looks at the body on the floor, shakes his head. “We can’t just leave him.”

“Fine,” Theo concedes. “Alright, let’s take him. Someone’s stealing the bodies anyway, right? Here’s our chance to find out who.”

_Think, Stiles._

“Stiles, come on,” Theo says, insistent. Theo just killed someone right in front of him. Theo freaking _kissed_ him. Stiles looks at him, blinks, tries not to slam right back against Theo’s chest. Why would he do any that? “We gotta do something.”

“You killed him,” Stiles says, out loud, and it’s not an explicit question or the question he wants to ask, but something tells him Theo knows that, doesn’t he?

“In self-defense,” Theo protests, but Stiles doesn’t buy that. No. “He was gonna kill you _and_ me.” Theo’s grasping at straws here. _Is he?_ Fuck. “If we stay, we’re either gonna have to tell the truth or we’re gonna need a pretty convincing story.”

Stiles wets his lips. The sirens are getting closer and they’ve got a good chunk of unresolved feelings stretching thin in the air and a dead guy on the floor. They don’t exactly have a lot of options. Not right now.

“It’s your choice.” Theo gives him an apologetic look. “I’m not gonna ask you to lie to your dad.”

Stiles breathes, shakes his head, says, “Don’t worry. I’ve had plenty of practice.”


End file.
